Have You Seen This Girl?
by Niixx
Summary: We watch as he staggers into the building, nearly tripping over his own feet in his drunken haste. “Have you seen this girl?” he asks in a slur as he lifts an old picture of a pink haired woman. Sadfic; Amuto Complete!


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Shugo Chara!

**Summary:** We watch as he staggers into the building, nearly tripping over his own feet in his drunken haste. "Have you seen this girl?" he asks in a slur as he lifts an old picture of a pink haired woman.

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**Have You Seen This Girl?**

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We all looked at the clock. It was just about that time. He would come through the doors any moment, dragging his feet, holding up his most treasured, time-worn possession. Then he would ask the same question he asked every night and everyone would simply say that they had not, but would try. Then we would gently direct him towards his home high atop that hill. We tried to be neighborly to him, but it was difficult.

He had once been a powerful, handsome man. He'd stood well above average height with a lean body that was always loose and dangerous. His hair had been a shocking blue that framed his face, shining in the light. His eyes had been bright blue, as well, sparking with mischief and happiness. He was a man who could hold himself proudly with kings and swap stories with barkeepers. He would play beautiful melodies on his treasured violin that brought peace to hearts.

And on his arm would be his petite young wife, a woman whose beauty went beyond compare. Her bubblegum pink hair stood out against the amber of her big, pretty eyes. Her small body fit perfectly into his side when he had his arm over her shoulders and she would always look up at him with that adoring look reserved for lovers. They were rarely seen apart and were graced by God with the perfection of their love.

They considered all of us their friends. Whenever they had a party at their big house high on the hill, no one was left out. They would play with the children in the town square, treating them as if they were their own.

Everything had seemed so perfect and surreal for them.

Then it happened.

We all remembered the day when everything had turned rotten like some kind of Greek tragedy. It had been raining hard and obviously not the time for sane people to be driving about. But drunk drivers could not be considered especially sane, could they?

She'd come to town for something none of us can remember, though perhaps he does. The street had been empty when she'd started walking across to her car.

Everyone that had been in the stores and diners that make up our main street heard the first thump before seeing the second.

There, in a heap on the ground, was the young wife, motionless, a puddle of blood forming around her head. Despite the rushing people around her, nothing could save her; the man who had hit her, we later found out, had been so inebriated that he hadn't realized that he'd hit someone but had thought it to be a pothole.

She was rushed to the emergency room, though she was announced dead on arrival.

He burst into the hospital in a panic, rushing to the nurses station, demanding to know what had happened to his wife. They'd told him that they didn't know where she was; she hadn't been admitted.

Pushing through the security guards blocking his way, he yanked out a picture of her, shoving it in the emergency room's doctor's face, begging him to know if he had seen her.

"Has anyone here since this girl?! Anyone!"

The pain and fear in his voice was enough to shake the hospital.

When the doctor had given him the terrible news, his face was as white and blank as a fresh new sheet of paper. He'd stood there for several minutes, just staring at the wall even after the doctor had slowly walked away to leave him in his misery.

After that night, he'd seemed to lose everything. His hair lost its sheen, his eyes their luster. He became anti-social and dark, never having another smile on his face. Whenever he came to town, it was only to drink away his sorrow, and it quickly became a daily routine. We watched as his clothes became dirty and unclean; he seemed to only change once or twice a week. And there was never another wondrous melody from his beloved violin.

We watch as he staggers into the building, nearly tripping over his own feet in his drunken haste. "Have you seen this girl?" he asks in a slur as he lifts an old picture of a pink haired woman. He stumbles towards us; we can smell the alcohol on his breath even though he is a few feet away from us. "I need…need to know she's…she's all right."

We do what we always do. We say that we have not seen her, but we will keep a lookout. We will send her his way when we find her. He should go home; she might be waiting there for him.

He makes his way out, turning towards the long, winding path leading to his decrepit home. We don't have to watch him anymore; he'll go straight home to get to her.

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But he did not follow his usual routine. No, he had to see her. He couldn't wait another night.

He made his way towards the cemetery, weaving through the weeds that had grown around the unused footpath. He could see the headstone he had chosen for her, the one that marked where his heart now lay. He would stand next to her and play her a song, her favorite song.

He would play, he decided, until she returned to him.

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_I'm sorry! I know; it's sad. I just had to get it out; it's been bouncing around in my head for too long and is interfering with my other projects.  
__**Niixx**_


End file.
